


to the health of married women, and their lovers

by evangelistofstars



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Adultery, Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Porn, Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunk Sex, Duelling, Everyone Has Issues, Extramarital Affairs, Forbidden Love, General sluttiness, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Incest, Injury, Mild S&M, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Porn With Plot, Possible Character Death, Pre-Canon Pieces, Relationship Problems, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex on a table, Table Sex, canon cheating, duels, fedya gets shot, pierre needs to chill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-03-07 22:43:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13444959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evangelistofstars/pseuds/evangelistofstars
Summary: The affair was supposed to be in private. But then, they fell in love.





	1. Queen Of Society

Helene Kuragina had always been a well-bred woman, despite her loose sexuality. And before that, she had been a well-bred, lovely young girl. After all, she had learned from the best. One becomes quite skilled in society when one has Vasily Kuragin as their father. But having been brought up with such incredibly high standards was not as disciplinary as one may think. It wasn't long before Helene began to think outside of her father's constraints. Living under his roof, she had to be quite discreet, but, as the middle child, and by far the favorite, she found it was easier to get away with things than she had previously been forced to believe. She found rule-breaking was not that difficult, if you did it in secret, and one could always bend the rules a little and still be respected in society. And _this_ was how she started to become the woman we know today. But Helene Kuragina didn't always break the rules.

It all started with a man by the name of Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov.

* * *

 

Helene was sixteen. As she looked in the mirror, admiring beautiful reflection while Lilyasha (a servant) did her hair, she found herself bursting with excitement, and admittedly a bit nervous, for tonight was her big night. Tonight was the night that she came out in society, officially taking her place as a young, marriageable woman. Tonight was her first ball, and Helene could hardly contain herself. She had been dreaming of this night since she was a girl, had spent hours thinking about what it would be like to put on a ballgown and present herself into society. 

"Helene Kuragina, it's a pleasure to meet you." she had said to herself in the mirror, making sure her curtsy was nothing less than perfect. Since then, she had only blossomed, and Helene now felt like she was no longer a girl, and yet, she did not yet feel like a young woman. She found herself somewhere in between, in that awkward age where one is no longer a child yet not quite an adult yet, and, though she had mastered her waltz and her mazurka, and could dance them both with grace, poise, and ease, she could not help but feel a tinge of nervousness for tonight.

 _There's nothing to worry about,_ she told herself. _Tonight is going to be wonderful._

She looked in the mirror again, actually starting to believe it. As Lilyasha was finishing up her hair, Helene practiced her smile in the mirror, attempting to appear charming, confident, and, for interaction with the suitors, a little bit coquettish. However she chose to express herself, Helene was careful to never give anything away.

Finally, Lilyasha finished, and Helene sat at the vanity to apply rouge and a little bit of powder. Her hair had been set in a fashionable French updo, with the majority of her taut, dark-brownish curls piled high into an elegant bun, and a few loose curls delicately framing her face, topped off with a green feather headdress which accented her eyes, and matched the color of her gown for this evening.

She stood up, admiring her silky curls and amber-colored complexion in the mirror, and straightening her gown, a gauzy, metallic pale-green number, with delicate French beading and embroidery, which tapered at the waist and revealed a lacy golden panel underneath. 

She was just through admiring herself when she heard her father's voice through the door.

"Helene, dear, shall we go now?"

"Yes, father. Give me a moment." She straightened her pearl necklace and walked down the steps, holding up her skirts and meeting her father at the edge of the stairs, on the landing.

Vasily offered her his hand, and she took it, as the two of them (accompanied by Ippolit) headed out into the troika.

"Why can't I come?" Anatole whined.

"Because you are not old enough, Anatole, we've been over this!" said Aline, and the two of them watched as the carriage sped out of sight.

But Helene wished Anatole were old enough, so he could make her laugh, and calm her nerves, which she could really benefit from right now. She had always been much closer to Anatole than she had ever been to Ippolit, despite the fact that Anatole was quite a bit younger than she was.

As the troika traveled on to the Maritskiy's, Vasily gave her a rundown of all of Petersburg society: the rich families, the old dames, the young women, and, most importantly, the suitors. Helene, as most girls had, had thought quite frequently about meeting and enticing young suitors. Like most, she pictured an officer, but her more sensible side knew that she might have to settle for a plain civilian if he was rich enough to sustain her.

Arriving at the ball, Helene looked around at the Maritskiy's fine ballroom, and tried not to show too much awe as she admired the gorgeous chandeliers and ornate French-inspired architecture. She examined the crowd, and tried to remember her father's lecture about all of the people in Petersburg.

"Go now, Helene, I'll let you join your friends." said Vasily, and he walked away to give her some space, conversing with some friends of his own.

Helene found a few of her friends and acquaintances chatting with some other girls her age. Grabbing a wine glass, she went to join their group, and the girls accepted her graciously. Among her friends, there was Liliya Kirillovna Sergivenskaya, who she had known since childhood (Kirill Sergivensky was a friend of her father's, and Helene had become quite friendly with his daughters, particularly Liliya and Anya.); and Semyona Livenova, a recent, yet very close friend. Vera Rostova was also there, an acquaintance of Helene's, who was by no means a friend, but they were friendly enough that they could discuss society together. Masha Izenskova, another acquaintance, was chattering away to Semyona about something, which Helene couldn't quite understand. The rest of the group consisted of girls who Helene didn't personally know, but had heard of from Vasily's lectures. All of them were of marriageable age, though not all of them were beautiful or desirable. Helene looked around her and figured she wouldn't have much competition.

"In the name of all that is holy, would you look at Anna Pavlovna's headdress?" said Vera, who was known to be an unrelenting gossip.

Helene giggled in agreement. "Can you believe she would actually consent to wearing that in public?" she said, with a snide smile.

The other girls laughed, and the group spent quite a bit of time gossiping about what others were wearing that night. Helene did not like to be rude, but she knew a bit of gossip was, not only entertaining, but quite fashionable among society ladies, so she knew she could get away with it.

The ball droned on, and eventually the gossip came to an end, and the music and dancing begun. By this point, Helene's dance card was full, and she glanced at the names that were written on it. She recognized most of them, young officers or family friends or sons of old Petersburg bloodlines. But there was one she did not know. Fedya Dolokhov. She had heard nothing about a Dolokhov family in Petersburg, although the name 'Fedya Dolokhov' sounded vaguely familiar, as if she had heard the name somewhere and forgotten it. Was he one of Anatole's friends? Although she and her brother were close, Helene payed little attention to who Anatole surrounded himself with, so if someone had been Anatole's friend, she could not say she could remember. Whoever he was, she was excited to meet this Dolokhov, and hoped he was a handsome young officer, and not one of her father's old acquaintances.

 

Several hours had passed, and Helene had danced with nearly everyone on her dance card, but this Fedya Dolokhov had failed to make an appearance. Whoever he was, it was never polite to keep a lady waiting, especially not a lady of such high standing as the Princess Helene.

It had taken him a while, but Dolokhov finally showed up, and he was both exactly, and not at all, what Helene had expected. He was an officer, around her age or maybe a few years older, and he carried himself with such badassery and confidence that he seemed to be of quite a high rank. He was handsome, with dark, messy hair, and mysterious, grayish-green eyes, which seemed to know everything yet be completely oblivious at the same time. She felt like she could get lost in those eyes, as if there was an ocean waiting behind them, and Helene was ready to drown. His mouth was formed in a seemingly constant smirk, which Helene found both intimidating and arousing. She couldn't deny she was attracted to him, and she looked forward to dancing with him immensely, but she had to admit that leaving her waiting was terribly rude. Who did he think he was, abandoning her like that? _Trés uncouth_ , she thought, though she was still quite entranced by him.

Dolokhov crossed the room, and Helene tried to look as if she had not just been checking him out. She smiled at him, warmly, albeit coquettishly, and she felt something, something warm and fluttery, when this Dolokhov returned her smile.

"My apologies, ma cher, I did not intend to arrive so late... I do know how rude it is to keep a lady waiting, but I suppose I, er, lost track of time. Do forgive me, Princess." His tone was warm, yet formal, and he bowed courteously at Helene.

She smiled, choosing to forgive him, and offered him her hand for the mazurka, unable to wipe the coquettish smile off of her face. There was something about this Dolokhov that was intoxicating, and she felt like she could just drown in those eyes and that ever-present smirk, just drown in his words and his existence.

They danced, and every moment they danced made Helene feel like she was floating. When they danced the mazurka, they were lively and flirtatious. When they waltzed, she melted in his arms, and in the ecossaise, she couldn't stop staring at him. There were several more people on her dance card, and yet, for the rest of the night, she refused to dance with anyone but him, getting lost in his eyes and wishing to never return.

That night, when the ball was long over, Helene found herself unable to sleep, as she could not stop thinking about Dolokhov. Rude, yes. Positionless, yes. And yet, he was absolutely mesmerizing.

 


	2. Cupid Screwed Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helene is supposed to marry Pierre Bezukhov. He's a nice enough man, but there's one problem: She's already in love with someone else.

Years had passed since that fateful first ball, and Helene _wished_ she could say that Fedya Dolokhov had slipped from her mind. But unfortunately for her, he had not, and she had seen him several more times since that night. She fell a little bit in love with him again every time she saw him, and the two would have so much to talk about. Since then, she had learned her way about society, and wasn't so cautious and nervous as she had been as a young debutante. She could now dance the waltz and the mazurka with ease, with no need to look down and make sure she hadn't missed a step, and seducing and flirting with officers came quite easily to her. In fact, she was known as the Moscow slut, and as negative as that may sound, she flaunted that title and wore it with pride, proud of her loose sexuality.

It came to be that she would be quite disappointed if Dolokhov was not at a certain ball or party, and would tend to deflate in boredom for the rest of the night. It was not that she could not entertain herself, but she found herself missing him more than was usual as of late. She found other officers to flirt with, but a small part of her died each time her Fyodor was not at a gathering.

It was then that she started to realize she was in love with him. Sure, somewhere deep inside her, she had always kinda known it, but she had rejected the thought, and denied it every time. _I don't love him! I can't love him! I could never!_ She thought, and her more sensible side knew that to be at least partially true. In truth, Helene did not consider herself to be capable of love, and many who knew her would agree with her. Helene was a cold-hearted slut of a woman who had no morals, and seemingly no feelings, was what everyone said about her. Was this true? Not necessarily, but, like most rumors, it was at least partially rooted in the truth, or at least the "truth" which Helene had created for all of society to believe. She didn't want them to think that she was vulnerable, or soft, or that she was capable of feeling such emotions. And part of her had convinced herself that she _was_ this heartless woman, and it was not hard at all for her to believe it.

So, it came as quite a surprise when she realized she was in love with him. And when she did, she went into hysterics. She knew she could never be with him, her father would expect her to marry a rich man, and Dolokhov was a penniless soldier of little means who could barely afford to heat his own home. Still, she could fantasize, couldn't she? 

Helene had never been one for dreamy romantic fantasies, had always found them frivelous and silly. But now, she found herself practically consumed by fantasies, about what it would be like if she and Dolokhov were to run off somewhere and elope. The thoughts entertained her, though she knew she should not think of these things, she couldn't help herself, and she enjoyed having some fun once in a while.

It was late in April when Helene discovered that she was to be married to Pierre Bezukhov. She would've said no, but she had very little choice in the matter, as her father insisted, and there was no use arguing, as Vasily Kuragin _always_ gets what he wants. It wasn't that Helene actively objected to Pierre- sure, he was nice enough, and he was so rich he made Vasily look like a peasant, but he was so polar-opposite to Helene that she was certain he would cramp her style.

Older than her, clumsy, awkward, shy, generally unattractive, depressed, and ill-tempered, Pierre was not the ideal husband Helene had had in mind. His only good qualities included his money, status, and the fact that he was vastly intelligent, and he was _almost_ charming, had he not been so socially awkward. From a business perspective, Pierre was a brilliant match, and Helene could definitely see the reasons her father was asking her to marry him. But her father was not the one who would end up having to sleep with him, and, while she knew she could not have Dolokhov, she at least wanted someone she could tolerate sharing a bedroom with.

* * *

Helene laughed, smoothing her dress, and preparing for another ball. She was excited. Her last ball had been at the Livenovs', and they had no idea how to have a good time. She straightened her dress, a silky green créme moiré number with black and gold accents and beading, rearranged her double-string of pearls, and climbed into the troika.

That night, she saw someone who she had not expected to see for quite some time. Fedya Dolokhov, the same man she had fallen in love with, was apparently back in Petersburg. She approached him carefully, making sure no one could see them together, as she was technically engaged to Pierre. Still, she and Dolokhov talked and danced for hours, and Helene felt as in love with him then as she had at her very first ball. She was so entranced by him that it slipped her mind to tell him she was already betrothed. But, what he doesn't know can't hurt him _right?_ In fact, Helene would prefer that he _not_ know, so as to keep their relationship lasting for as long as it could. Even so, she knew she must tell him eventually, and now would be as good a time as any. 

The ball droned on, and Helene soon found herself alone in a hallway with Dolokhov. He tried to kiss her, and though she normally couldn't resist, she pulled away, unable to keep this from him.

"Fedya, I'm sorry, I'm already betrothed!"

"Betrothed? T-to who? You didn't tell me..." His voice was confused and nervous.

"To Pierre Bezukhov. I didn't tell you, because I didn't want to marry him at all."

"Well, then why are you betrothed to the man?"

"Er, it's complicated- my father is forcing me to marry him, and if there's one thing you should know about my father, it's that he _always_ gets what he wants." Helene felt terrible seeing this. She wished she could stay with Dolokhov forever and never have to worry about marrying, but given the way society was structured, and the way that her father had raised her, she knew that that was out of the question. Her brother Anatole didn't understand why he had to marry, and prefered to play around with various beautiful girls, ruining them in the process. But Anatole didn't give a damn what people thought of him. Helene didn't care that much either, but she cared that people _think_ that she cared about it. Surprisingly, she felt tears start to come to her eyes. She looked at Dolokhov sadly, her tearful eyes full of longing.

"Hush, dear, it's alright." said Dolokhov, pulling Helene into his arms, and holding her close to him. "If you ever need anything, or if Pierre ever tries to hurt you, I'll be here. Just know that you can come to me." He said, running his hands through her hair.

Helene smiled up at him appreciatively, and wanted to tell him she loved him, but instead, all she said was "I'm sorry."

Fedya shook his head. "Don't apologize. You did what you had to do." 

She nodded, Dolokhov's words helping her feel a bit better, though she was still very upset. 

"So... are we really over?" She sobbed, leaning against his chest.

"No, my dear. As long as you love me, we shall never be over." He said, smiling down at her.

Helene smiled, and without hesitation, pulled Dolokhov into a kiss. She kissed him passionately, knowing this may be the last time she could ever do this again. After quite a while, she pulled away, and collapsed back into his arms.

"I love you," she whispered, smiling up at him.

She meant it. Every word.


	3. Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helene had always anticipated her wedding day, but now she was filled with dread. If only it were Dolokhov she was marrying, instead of Pierre. That would be so much better.

Helene slipped on her veil, nervous for her big day. Normally, she’d be excited. Today was her wedding day! But it was also the day when she was tied down to Pierre forever, the day that marked the end of her life as a single woman, and the end of her life as she knew it.

If only it were Dolokhov she was marrying, rather than Pierre. He would hold her close and tell her that everything was going to be okay, he would kiss her and hold her hands. She loved him, but she had to move on from that. Dolokhov was a penniless soldier, and Pierre was rich and respectable, a woman of her standing running off with a man like Fedya would’ve been unseemly!

But still, she could not help but wanting him.

As she walked down the aisle, her breath hitched in her chest. Her heart sank, and she found it hard to breathe. Helene Kuragina was hardly scared of anything, and yet, in this moment, she was terrified. Terrified that she may never see her Fedya again.

“Come on, Helene, you can do this. You can do this.” She took deep breaths and continued to tell herself this. She just wanted the wedding to be over, she wanted to be rid of Pierre. If Dolokhov were here, he would put his hand in hers and whisper something sweet and reassuring. But he wasn’t, and she had to move on.

As she finally reached the altar, she took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was strong. Settling a little, she finally looked up from her hands, fixating her face on the crowd. She looked around. There was Anatole and her parents, in the front row. All of Moscow society was behind them. But Fedya was nowhere to be seen. Then again, what would she have expected, for him to show up just to watch her marry someone else? As much as she wished he was there, she knew that him being there would pain him, and she didn’t want to do that to her Fedya.

She turned to the side, where Pierre and the priest were looking at her, waiting to start the ritual. She nodded and reminded herself that she could do this, that she was strong and independent and could handle herself with Pierre. Trying to keep calm, she stood quietly and listened to the priest start the ceremony.

The priest conducted the vows, said something in Russian, and then sprinkled holy water on Pierre. Helene watched as Pierre promised to care for her in sickness and in health, and a lump caught in her throat as she realized next would be her turn.

The priest then turned to Helene, said the same words in Russian, and sprinkled holy water on her, as he conducted her to take her vows.

“Do you, Princess Helene Kuragina, take Pierre to be your husband, to love him, honor him, cherish him in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?”

Helene choked back tears as she said those binding words. “I do.”

Did she though?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for not getting this up sooner, i was very busy and had a lot of homework to do!!! but i’m back and i hope you enjoy it


	4. She Is Quite Madly In Love, It Seems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, Pierre and Helene were (not so) happily married. We all knew just what would happen next.

It had been several months since the wedding. Since then, Helene had gone from casually ignoring Pierre, to going out of her way just to torture him. She had also taken up quite a few lovers along the way, but that was more or less expected, as who would expect her to be faithful while tied down to _that oaf?_ One couldn´t really blame her for cheating now, could they. But Helene had to admit that even she had not quite seen  _this_ coming.

* * *

 

 

“Would it be alright if my friend Dolokhov came to stay with us?“ he had asked, his voice casual and matter of fact.

Helene tensed up. Dolokhov, as in _Fedya_ Dolokhov? The Dolokhov she loved so much, and would have married, if it had been socially appropriate? She closed her eyes and silently prayed he was referring to a different Dolokhov. 

“Er- yes, I suppose that´s fine.“ she said, as calmly as she could convincingly muster. It better not be the same Dolokhov.

But it was the same Dolokhov, and as he walked through that door, Helene felt her temperature rise by almost double.

He was as handsome as ever, if not more so. His eyes were still just as mysterious and just as sparkling, and he strutted about with the exact same mischevious smirk. His hair was endearingly tousseled as always, and it seemed as if nothing had changed about him; though it had been several years, he seemed to have not aged a day.

Helene felt her breath hitch in her chest, unable to speak as she allowed him to walk towards her. It had been so long since she had last seen him, she´d forgotten just how charming he was. He approached her, and bowed a little, in the most formal and extravagant way possible. _How very Fedya Dolokhov,_ she thought.

“Helene, this is my friend, Fedya Dolokhov. Dolokhov, this is my wife, Helene.“ Pierre interrupted, shaking Helene out of her semi-dreamy reverie.

“Yes. We´ve met.“ Dolokhov said, and Helene nodded. Neither of them wished to add too much detail to that statement. 

Whenever Pierre was around, Helene and Dolokhov pretended to despise eachother. But they always found ways to sneak off on their own and enjoy eachother, usually by making love or engaging in similar acts. Helene was certain Pierre would never find out. But Dolokhov, being Dolokhov, had his doubts.

* * *

 

Helene had been sleeping with Fedya Dolokhov for months now. And through it all, having taken him over and over, having done so only made her love him more. And Fedya, too, never got tired of Helene, doing and re-doing her, discovering and re-discovering, over and over again, until you´d think there´d be nothing left to discover, but he was always finding more. And Helene never stopped giving him more to find. She delighted in his passion for her, feeling a reciprocated passion onto him, she felt for him as he felt for her, and he felt for her as she felt for him. The two found themselves capable of not just _making_ love, but _being in it,_ and relishing in that feeling.

And for the first time in a while, Helene truly relished in this feeling, as she smiled up at Fedya; a soft, loving smile, not her usual mischievous smirk; eyes filled with some combination of love and desire all at once.  


 

 

“Fedya... I- I love you.“

She said. And she meant it. With every single fiber of her soul.

**Author's Note:**

> so this was my first time writing anything dolokhov/helene, but i love them together so much, and have recently become fedyalene trash, so i thought i'd write something for them.


End file.
